


Memories.

by nickvividly



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coping, Depression, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Heavy Angst, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poetry, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, Therapy, Toxic Relationship, after the third chapter things just go down, but its happy, dream centric, dream is bi btw, dreamnotfound, maybe not the end that people wants, other characters to be added - Freeform, references of to the moon, yes bitches they are dating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 17:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickvividly/pseuds/nickvividly
Summary: I know that even if you left - wherever you’re - you’re equally uncomfortable with this sudden change.It was weird.Because you just left me letters under your feet,And suddenly disappeared.Perhaps reliving memories is the best option at this point.---DISCLAIMER: This story is pure angst. There are heavy mentions of depression, suicidal thoughts and suicide. Please read it carefully. At the end of all chapters, there will be support numbers.You matter.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF)/Original Female Character(s), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Zak Ahmed & Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, Zak Ahmed & Darryl Noveschosch, more relationships to be added - Relationship
Kudos: 7





	Memories.

**Author's Note:**

> hey
> 
> i know i was supposed to write my sbi story but i couldnt stop thinking about this one-
> 
> this story its consisted of acts, being more exact 3 acts
> 
> thats not a story to read and be happy, its to cry at 3 am while listening to mcr, so please, be careful:(
> 
> i really like writing angst and poetry. the story has really implicit feelings, poetic, my favorite type of writing:)
> 
> also,,, [ dream's playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0UT4XId0VMpjMka9oBms8S?si=ZoaxYMaRQ0ycIKu9vjMSVA)
> 
> george's [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2BMwEEVRUhK5NsuuJHISQl?si=p7Upg36iTNCtwu8c3vbehw) too!
> 
> i love making playlists for my stories if you guys didnt notice
> 
> hope you guys like it
> 
> george's pov

Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck in time.

I see everyone moving, walking back and forth. My eyes slowly follow them, all in slow motion. I wonder if I’m too fast and took too long to act. Or if everyone’s accelerating and I can merely perceive the smudges of these people.

Going to the loudest parties that I can find, looking at all the people laughing, drinking alcohol, dancing, living their lives. However, all I can detect it’s a corrupted film. One that scares me everytime. That I can’t neglect.

It doesn’t matter how loud the parties are. How much I drink and try to accomodate a vivid pace at life. How I try to feel I’m still alive and not just a carcass of something that one day was a person. 

Of how much I want to get away from this silence.

A silent rush, after all.

The silence in which swallows you, submerge, makes you unrecognizable. So much restlessness and quiet at the same time.

So much going on and nothing at the same time.

People look at me, seeing the scars, the bags under my eyes, the piercings, my fucking soul that I did barely recognize that exist. All of them are just insignificant drafts, not mattering my time. 

It doesn’t matter. They don’t pay attention to me, indeed.

Every so often I feel that, at some point, only my life stopped at a specific time.

A moment in which, even today, I hear. The buzz, the anxious and breathless silence, so quiet that you can hear the sound of tears falling to the floor. The trickle of the pain and fear. The bones rubbing as they shake, the movements of the eyeballs, seeking hope to live.

Looking around me isn’t worth it. What I regard are just blurs of what I long ago recognized as people. Nothing else matters.

Sometimes, I feel like I definitely stopped in time.

That I’m still stuck that day.

The market. Fear filling the establishment, protective arms embracing me. Whining. Harsh steps and popping metal. 

A bang and then a ring.

Ringing.

Ringing that still deafens me.

Nothing else’s worth it. No face’s worth looking at, paying attention to, including mine and yours,

Clay.

Nothing else matters, not even the day I met you.

* * *

  
  


**_ACT I:_ **

_ Fuse. _

first letter.

_ The day we met. _

* * *

Keys.

The piano skirled in a muffled sound inside the room.

The vertices of rangy fingers strumming delicately, homely, calmly. The instrument, as an answer to all the painstaking touches, harmonized its lovely sound, occupying the constant buzzing that silence aggregates. 

Having its unique pace, one that if you search even in hell you wouldn’t find. 

It was the first sound that I didn’t regret listening to.

The calm melody hummed and reverberated between the empty corridors, ricocheting the walls and entering directly in my ears, cherishing my tympanum. The sound of my steps died when I perceived it, looking meticulously at the door. Door that was preventing me from knowing the first sound that muffled everything.

All my life I was haunted by the same sound.

The famous languid ringing.

Hearing for the first time something that looked like comfort its self, that wrapped its arms around my body, engulfing me between the sheets of home.

Listening to something new was rejuvenating. Liberator. Cathartic.

Suddenly, ceased.

Right after, claps and buzz.

At that time, I was 15 years old. It was the first time I heard the coruscation music Clay is.

I was wandering to my classroom, minutes late, until I detected the melody, which seemed like it was proclaiming me to hear more about it. Lulled my soul, my ears which were tired from the same thing.

A piano so calm and evocative. Having the power to depart the pain that never left my heart.

Subsequently, it turned into something daily on wednesdays and fridays. When my feet touched the slippery ground near that door, the hum of the keys pervaded my mind for brief minutes.

I was obligated to enter the club to gather more.

Listening to while looking at him was even more eloquent So centred, fixed at the melody, the heart resounding at the chest hardly by how much good it made.

Enchanted anybody. Like magic.

Clay, at the time, was a 12 years old boy, always being 3 years before me. His hair was short when I met. The strands fell above his eyes and hit half of his neck. Glasses were ported, and a minimum beard started to grow, something common between the teenagers. 

I didn’t distinguish the effects of the other's song. So addicting, which pretended to always acclaim more of me. Looking at the boy with admiration, showing more innocence and happiness than I.

When I noticed, I was addicted.

Centimeters higher, 3 years newer than me.

The day I met you was playing “Having Lived”, by Michael Tai.

It seems like the piano echoes my mind even now. For moments, retiring that sound, providing reasons to pay attention around again. To withdraw the scratches I did mentally at everyone’s faces, being unrecognizable see them.

You were still scratched. An incognito.

However, by time, your eraser was pulling out it and getting near me. Invading my personal space, wanting to know me and know the mess I am.

Doesn’t matter how much I crave scratching your face to overlook you and don’t pay attention. You constantly got behind me, like a dog yearning for attention from its owner.

Then, one day, I destroyed every morality I had. You earned a piece of my heart, a look of my eyes, a space in my ear. 

“Why did you enter the club?”, you asked. We were at P.E, occasioning to encounter, since we shared the same place and hour of apprenticeship.

I looked at him,

And asked myself.

I did scarcely grasp what to state.

“Because I wanted to hear more of your music.”

Thus, myself admitted out loud:

The musical coruscation of Clay begat success to cherish my buzzing.

The day I met you,

Arranged a new song for me.

There you are, for some reason, looking utterly at me. Your eyes captured things with difficulty, however, even by that, insisted on paying all the attention to me. Saying I’m handsome, that sights were beautiful. 

That it mattered to look around.

“George?”

“Yeah.”

“One day I’m going to show you.”

“... What?”

“And play a song for you.”

“Ok… And what are you going to show me?”

A smile and, after, a loose laugh.

“That the world it’s gorgeous.”

**Author's Note:**

> National Suicide Lifeline: 1800 273 8255
> 
> Crisis Text Line:  
> Text 'SHARE' to 741741 CANADA: 686868 UK: 85258  
> or visit: Crisistextline.org
> 
> Disaster Distress Helpline:  
> 1 800 985 - 5990 Txt ‘TalkWithUs’ to 66746  
> Sexual Assault Help Line:  
> Call 1-800-656-4673
> 
> Domestic Abuse Resource:  
> Call: 1-800-799-7233 TTY: 1-800-787-3224  
> Chat: Online at http://thehotline.org


End file.
